


von dir begeistert

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8884834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: Thomas thinks Miro looks very nice in his new suit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



"It looks good on you," Thomas says from behind him.

Miro doesn't quite startle, tipped off just in time by the wisp of presence in the air a split second before he speaks -- but it's close, because there's a discussion hovering in the space between them, one Miro really does not want to have, has been actively avoiding, and that Thomas, for reasons of his own, seemingly simply hasn't found his way around to yet. "Does it," he says instead, although he's perfectly aware that Thomas has never needed a response to carry on a conversation. If he's actually participating, he can retain some small illusion of control.

"Obviously," says Thomas. His hands settle at Miro's waist, long bony fingers curving around to his stomach. Miro feels him smile the instant before he nuzzles the back of Miro's hair and brushes down, stopping just above the collar of his suit jacket to talk some more. "I have eyes, you know, like a potato. Contrary to popular opinion I'm not all mouth."

"Enough of you is." Of course, he gets a bite on the nape of his neck for that, but it's not really unexpected and Thomas is half-laughing against his skin, fingers tightening an instant in a brief squeeze before his hands cross over to settle entirely on Miro's front, splayed wide, his pinkies ranging dangerously low. "Thomas..."

"Opa...." Thomas says back, aping the warning note in his voice with annoying precision. His hands don't move, which is -- could be -- a problem, considering they're still in the middle of the hotel hallway, some 10 meters or so from Miro's door. Thomas could probably pass it off as a joke, the beginnings of a wrestling game or something, as easily as breathing, but Miro knows how he himself reacts to surprise ( _to Thomas_ ) too well to think that he wouldn't give it away in seconds to anyone who knew what to look for. Enough of the people on this hall know him well that the prospect is less than appealing.

There's a method to managing Thomas's madness, though, and that method does not in the least involve trying to get him to see sense about risks once he's committed to them. Miro settles his hand over Thomas's instead, so that both of them feel his slight involuntary twitch when Thomas breathes hot down the back of his neck. "Let's go in," he says, and Thomas takes to the carrot as easily as he'd expected, pushing him forwards after one last little nibble.

It's a little difficult to get his keycard out with Thomas's arms and hands in the way, really more like an octopus than a potato; instead of moving them, Thomas slides his hand into Miro's pocket first, his hand lingering against Miro's thigh through the thin layer of the pocket lining as he pulls the card out with deliberately calculated slowness, close enough that Miro's pulse trips faster. "Looking for this?" he asks as he finally tugs it free and holds it up.

"Yes, thank you," Miro says, keeping his voice mild enough that Thomas will have to find the sarcasm on his own. He takes the card and unlocks the door, tugging Thomas through and shoving it closed again behind them with a gentle kick before he can reply, then turning in Thomas's grip.

"You should be careful," Thomas says, raising his eyebrows and waggling them at Miro. "If you lost it, who knows who could sneak into your room?"

"I have some idea," Miro says.

Thomas pulls a face and takes an unexpected step back, looking Miro over without bothering to hide the gleam in his eye, appreciative going on lascivious. "Very nice," he says, leaving one hand on the small of Miro's back and tugging gently at the v-collar of Miro's sweater with the other -- though Miro strongly suspects it's less to fix it and more to mess it up. He pauses briefly, his lopsided grin widening a little. "I was going to say I wanted to see it off you," he says, "but now I'm thinking it might be better if you left it on."

"You've seen me in a suit before," Miro points out.

"But I was in one too. That's boring." Thomas's hand flattens itself against his chest, fingertips hooked over the sweater still so the collar tugs at Miro's neck briefly as the hand wanders south. "Well," he adds, making a show of thinking about it as his fingers brush over Miro's stomach again, "more boring."

"Thanks," he says again. But somehow -- probably exactly as Thomas had intended -- it's easy to think about: Thomas in jeans and T-shirt now; him in a few days, kitted out, socks slouching as always, Miro still in this suit. It is... interesting, as much as he would rather not admit Thomas was right, and as much as he thinks he probably ought _not_ to find it interesting for any number of reasons, several of which are rather important in both professional and ethical ways. 

He can tell Thomas knows he's imagining it anyway by the way he grins again, almost feral, even before he tugs Miro's zipper down and slips his hand inside his trousers without bothering to unbutton them. "Yes," Thomas says as he gets his hand around Miro's half-hard cock, mostly to himself and in the tone of someone confirming some great scientific hypothesis, "definitely better." He squeezes gently, making a smug noise as Miro's breath shudders, then fishes him deftly out of his open fly.

It feels good, of course; Thomas's hand always feels good, and it's been a long time, since Miro last felt it like this, in the measured privacy of a hotel room, with the sense of _belonging_ snapped back into place between them. Better, though -- he licks his lips. Thomas has always made it so easy to sail right past shouldn'ts and can'ts.

"You can say it, Opa," Thomas says. His hand twists a little as he strokes, the edge of his palm pressing just right. "You know, if you make me do all the talking here, I might lose my voice, and then where would we be? And how should I explain that to the docs?"

"You'd think of something," Miro says. He's fairly sure it's physically impossible for Thomas to lose his voice from talking too much, or else he'd probably have been, born without one. "But, eh, if you wanted to be safe--" he can't help raising his eyebrow a little despite the warning jangle of his nerves, and is rewarded with a cackle from Thomas -- "you could do something else with your mouth."

"And after I just said I wasn't all mouth," Thomas complains, but leans in to kiss him anyway, crowding close again so that Miro's cock is close between them and he can feel the hard press of Thomas's against his thigh despite their jeans. And this is good, too, despite the way Thomas is laughing a little still, the edge of his teeth sharp against Miro's lips; it feels like it always has, which is, bizarrely, simultaneously reassuring and disturbing. He's not sure what it means that the illusion of power between them changes nothing, but Thomas doesn't let him puzzle at it for long. He bites first, a nip with those sharp teeth riding the edge of painful, enough to send a shiver down Miro's spine, then slowly pushes him backwards until he's got Miro's back against the wall next to the door. His hand has never left Miro's cock, stroking him in a slow, aggravatingly uneven rhythm that stutters to a stop entirely when he finally pulls back from the kiss. "Well," he says, "how was that, coach?"

Miro knows that this is another, perhaps the last, chance to tell Thomas no. They'd both know it was a no he didn't mean, but -- "You should work on your shot placement," he says instead.

Thomas cracks up again and, as always, it makes everything feel all right. He's still laughing when he drops gracelessly to his knees, braces his free hand on Miro's thighs, and plants a wet, enthusiastic kiss on the head of Miro's cock, tongue swiping fast across it, and thankfully no teeth. He stares up with a look of comical, wrinkle-browed concentration, and mumbles something that sounds a lot like _Is this any better?_

"Now practice a little," Miro says, and laughs, himself, when Thomas does exactly that and nothing more: just repeats the kisses again and again, sometimes adding a comical smacking noise, sometimes an unexpected twist of his hand where he's holding him steady. Maybe that's what makes the difference -- it should be sleazy, but somehow it isn't; it's just trapped somewhere in the vague triangle between earnest, sarcastic, and ridiculous along with most everything else about Thomas. His hand tangles easily into Thomas's hair, stroking through the tangled curls. "Good," he says after a few minutes, halfway to breathless. "Much better."

"Are you sure," Thomas asks, pulling back halfway through the sentence just far enough to be more understandable, but not so far that his lips don't brush past him with every word, "because I could practice some more, you know."

"I think you've got it." Thomas's idea of disputing this is nuzzling up against the side of his cock, pressing half-kisses to it with just the edge of his mouth.

After a minute, Miro tugs at his hair lightly; he glances up again, grinning, and says, "So--" but Miro doesn't wait him out this time. "Suck me," he says bluntly, watching for the answering spark of heat that flares up in Thomas's eyes. He's always liked that, hearing other people talk, for as much as he rarely stops talking himself to give them the chance. Maybe it's the clothes or something else entirely, but it feels less awkward to indulge him in it like this, to leave his hand light in his hair rather than guiding him wordlessly like he normally would. 

"Well! If you insist, although that's really an advanced play, and I'm--"

"You'll manage," Miro says. He lets himself twirl a few strands through his fingers, but otherwise holds still. 

Thomas's hand is slowly slipping around to the back of his thigh, the feel of it through the fine cloth of the suit pants just different enough to be noticeable. "It's always nice to be believed in," he says to no one in particular. 

"Thomas," Miro says, because he's really not sure what -- how _much_ \-- Thomas means by that, and he wants to talk about it right now, with Thomas's mouth a centimeter from his dick, even less than he did a few minutes ago. "Now."

"Yes, trainer," Thomas says, with exactly the sort of deliberately yet deniably annoying tone he actually does use on the field, and which Miro will now have to try very hard to not associate with _this_ , with the feel of Thomas finally sucking him down, a long, perfect, deep swallow nearly all the way to the root that takes the rest of Miro's breath instantly. He pulls back a few inches and Miro half expects him to have remembered something that desperately needs saying immediately, but instead he sinks back down again after just half a second's pause, starting a quick, intent pace so entirely in contrast to his protests of _advanced play_ and _needing more practice_ that Miro isn't sure whether it's meant as another tease of some sort. He can't honestly bring himself to care, because Thomas is, has been for a long time, very good at sucking cock when he gets around to doing it, lips and tongue and hand all working in haphazard perfect coordination.

It takes Miro too long to feel sure of his voice again, so long he's breathing fast and half on the edge by the time he can say "Like that, yes," without stuttering through it. Thomas smiles around his dick and he looks so eager for it that Miro thrusts forward a little almost involuntarily, making him splutter a little and shift to catch up. "I want to see you in your kit," he adds recklessly, and Thomas's mumble changes from mock-complaint to a thick gasp. The rush of air is shocking, it's good -- Miro pushes into his mouth again, this time deliberately. Thomas swallows harshly around him, sending fire curling up Miro's spine, then moans, so loud despite the muffled incoherence that Miro spares a brief thought for thin hotel walls before discarding it because what he wants, what _else_ he wants, and what he knows Thomas wants too, is more of that, is -- "Touch yourself," he says, knocking Thomas's hand off his leg and shoving it down towards him instead. Thomas does without argument or commentary, which is proof enough of that, palming himself over his jeans for a moment before Miro hears the sharp rasp of the zipper and _feels_ the shudder that jolts through Thomas's body as he gets his hand on himself properly.

After that it doesn't take long for either of them, though the sight of Thomas still on his knees and licking his own come off his fingers, afterwards, is enough to make Miro shiver as if it hadn't been only seconds, a shred of doubt creeping back in. He settles for pulling him up and into another long kiss, but it's not until Thomas comes up for breath and says, "Does it have to be _my_ kit? Because I think Kimmy's room is closer--" that it vanishes entirely.


End file.
